Nighthawks
by RobinRocks
Summary: The boy stepped onto his table. He was beautiful, his hair bright gold under the lights, his blue eyes dark and brilliant. He was dressed like a cowboy and had a hell of a sway in his hips. UKUS, with past fem!FrUK.
1. I

_So_... I found this horrible thing two-thirds finished on an old memory stick the other day. I have no idea when I wrote it, at _least_ a year ago, maybe more. o.O But, well, re-reading it I sort of liked it so I thought I'd allow it to see the light of day. It will be three parts when I cobble together the last section.

...I really should finish all those other fics of mine but why the hell not upload this instead, right? XD

Btw, 'Jack' is not an OC. I hope the narrative makes it obvious but he is in fact Alfred, just using a false name. I'm sure that will be apparent but just in case seeing the name 'Jack' in the text repeatedly makes you go 'OC NOPE ABORT' and head for the hills, haha. XD

Title comes from the famous 1942 Edward Hopper painting of the same name.

Nighthawks

I

The boy stepped onto his table. He was beautiful, his hair bright gold under the lights, his blue eyes dark and brilliant. He was dressed like a cowboy and had a hell of a sway in his hips.

He wasn't the only dancer: it was an ensemble, six of them, three boys and three girls, all too young and inexperienced to dance on their own. This was a practice run to teach them how to kick and bite.

Perhaps the boy came to Arthur because he wasn't whistling and shouting obscenities. He was sitting on his own, in fact, quietly with a neat whisky. He liked to take his time, take his pick. This was the first time he'd ever been to this particular club and these things couldn't be rushed.

Either the boy was trying his utmost to make the decision for him or was simply hoping for a stray Abe Lincoln to shimmy his way. Whichever it was, he was very forward, sliding off the table and into Arthur's lap. He squirmed and opened a button or two, slow, barely in time with the music. He wasn't really a very good dancer, at least not yet. Arthur put his elbow on the table and watched him - and the boy slowed, faltered, then gave him quite the haughtiest look. His blue eyes had a dulled, cold charm to them. Arthur liked him.

"Do you fuck better than you dance?" he purred over the music, right in the boy's ear.

The boy leaned back, squinted at him, gave a grin.

"Why don't you find out?" He pushed backwards off Arthur's knees and slid away with a little wave. Almost immediately his place was filled by a girl in a skimpy sailor outfit, her coiffed blonde hair bouncing at her shoulders. Arthur barely paid her any mind. He certainly wasn't into women anymore - not after Francine.

After the show, he made his way backstage to inquire about the boy. The club's owner was a concrete block of a Russian called Braginsky, a well-organised man with a soft voice and a dangerous manner.

"Boy in cowboy outfit?" Braginsky went down the list of dancers arranged in a neat leather folder. "Tonight wearing cowboy outfit is Jack."

"Jack," Arthur repeated, more to try it out.

"Indeed." Braginsky nodded. "Twenty dollars for one hour. Interested?"

"I suppose so."

"How about pretty girl, too, for extra ten dollars?"

"No thank you. Just the boy, please."

"Suit yourself." Braginsky took the money and began to count it out. "You are new to New York?"

"Just visiting." Arthur glanced around the room. "...I admit to enjoying a distraction whenever I'm here."

"A distraction is always good. I agree that New York is a hellhole." Braginsky pushed a key towards him with a pleasant smile. "Room 16. Have a good time, da?"

Arthur nodded and left the room, passing a queue of men lined up, waiting their turn to strike a deal. Many of them were sailors, still in their neat blue-and-white uniforms.

He made his way up the rickety stairs, three floors, to Room 16. The building was an old Victorian one, a good seventy or eighty years old, all heavy wood and wrought iron; and Room 16, one half of the converted attic, was no exception. It had a high, slanted ceiling, one long window with a decorative iron grate and a beast of a fireplace, industrial, moulded with apple trees. There was no fire in it: doubtless Braginsky didn't feel the need.

The room was empty so Arthur went and sat on the bed to wait for the boy. He wasn't nervous, having done this plenty of times before. Besides, it wasn't as though he had a wife or a girlfriend to cheat on. The biggest worry was the police but he knew they didn't tend to venture this far into the Bronx - and that besides, Braginsky was clearly a Mafia member if ever he saw one. He didn't expect there would be any sort of trouble tonight, which left him alone with his much-needed distraction.

He really hated coming to New York.

The door opened and the boy stepped into the room. He was still in his cowboy outfit - highly impractical as it was - but Arthur saw that he was now wearing glasses, chunky prescription frames perched on the bridge of his nose.

The boy met his gaze, saw that he was staring at his glasses and immediately moved to take them off.

"Sorry, I know they're ugly," he said. "I'll take them off, it's just I need them to get up the stairs without breaking my neck-"

"No, it's alright. You can keep them on. If you need them you need them. Besides..." Arthur scratched at his cheek. "I rather like them."

The boy tilted his head at him. "You think they're sexy?"

Arthur coughed. "I suppose they have a certain charm to them."

The boy shrugged and came over to the bed. "Most people call them ugly," he said, "but I kinda like them, too." He put out his hand. "Name's Jack."

It probably wasn't but Arthur nodded.

"Arthur." His name was so common that he never bothered to give a fake one. They shook. Strangely professional.

"So you decided to take me up on my offer?" Jack asked nonchalantly, beginning to undress.

"I suppose I thought your fucking couldn't possibly be any _worse_ than your dancing," Arthur replied.

"Ouch." Jack grinned. "That's some tongue you have. You any good with it?"

"I didn't pay your boss twenty dollars to see if _my_ tongue was any good."

The boy laughed - and something about it suddenly set Arthur ill at ease. It was very young.

"Can I ask how old you are?" Arthur took his wrist. "I want an honest answer."

"I'm nineteen." Jack arched his eyebrows. "Why, you want younger?"

"Certainly not!" Arthur let him go. "I just wanted to be sure you're perfectly legal."

"Are you serious? You just paid twenty dollars to fuck a teenaged boy in the ass. I'm pretty sure that's at least four kinds of illegal."

Arthur scowled. "Look, are you sure you're nineteen?"

" _Yes_." Jack rolled his eyes. "You want me to go get my birth certificate?"

"No."

"Good, 'cause I don't have one, haha." Jack pushed him onto his back and straddled him, unbuttoning the last of his shirt and tossing it onto the floor. He arched his back and stretched for a moment; smiling down at Arthur when he reached out to run a hand up over his chest. "You like what you see?"

"Mm." Arthur dragged his fingers down again, pulling over Jack's belly, dipping just beneath his belt. "You're beautiful."

Jack hummed, beginning to undo Arthur's waistcoat. "Can I ask how old _you_ are?" he murmured. "You can be honest. I like older men."

"I'm thirty-seven."

"Heh. You are definitely not the oldest I've had."

"I don't know if that's comforting or not."

"It should be." Jack rutted against him suddenly, making him gasp. "You're definitely one of the most attractive."

"Indeed." Arthur pressed his knee between the boy's legs in kind, making him shudder. "I bet you say that to them all."

"Maybe." Jack shook the shiver out of his spine and loosened Arthur's tie, deftly undid his shirt buttons. "Well, you're lucky - because not only do I like older men, I also like Englishmen."

"In that case, you're the lucky one, aren't you? Perhaps _you_ should be the one paying for this."

"Ha, can you imagine? Ivan'd hit the goddamn roof!" Jack ran a curious finger over a scar on Arthur's ribs. "Get into a fight?"

"A very big fight," Arthur agreed. "I think they call it the Second World War."

"Oh, damn, yeah. If you're thirty-seven, I guess you fought, right?"

"Yes. I got that on D-Day going up the beach." Arthur paused, propping himself to glance down at it. "I was luckier than most."

"I'll kiss it better." Jack made quite a show of leaning down and pressing his mouth to it, suckling it, lathing his tongue over it. Arthur squirmed, putting his hand to the boy's head.

"Nice?" Jack was smirking at him.

"Mm."

"Got any more for me to kiss better?"

"I... ah..."

"Or shall I keep looking?"

"Yes, perhaps... perhaps you should do that..."

Jack slid his way down Arthur's body, kissing over his chest and belly, nipping at the skin just above his belt. Arthur arched against his mouth, lifting his hips for the boy to unbuckle his belt, take down his button and zip. Jack paused with his hands pressed to Arthur's inner thighs.

"Yes?" he asked quietly.

Arthur's breath caught in his throat; he swallowed with difficulty, nodded. Jack hummed his agreement - approval, perhaps: _excellent choice, sir_ \- and swallowed him up. Arthur threaded his hands into his golden hair, held his head, felt the muscles moving over the back of his skull. He was good, sending a tremor right up through Arthur's core, leaving him panting, writhing on the gritty sheets.

 _I've known too much of this._ A sudden thought, unwelcome, as he looked up at the ceiling. Half of his life was lived behind cracked plaster and old doors.

There was a sudden hot jolt low down in his belly and he came, almost without expecting it. He let out quite the string of colourful words and felt Jack grin around him as he swallowed. Their eyes met as the boy lifted his head and wiped his mouth on the back of his hand; and his were dark, not with desire but a weariness, practiced words, reflex actions. He didn't think twice about swallowing. Too many ceilings and cracked plaster and old doors.

 _How have we come to this, you and I?_ That was what Arthur wanted to ask. _Why did our paths cross here of all places?_

Because. That was why. This boy, a teenager in a ragged cowboy costume in the sleaziest part of the Bronx, had just swallowed his semen because he had paid a Russian mafioso twenty dollars. Was that fair? Jack seemed to think it was - so who was Arthur to say that it wasn't? What did he know? _Because_. That was enough.

So before he asked something idiotic like "Do you like doing this?", instead he said "That was lovely," (which was slightly less idiotic). Jack smiled and opened his mouth to reply and promptly started coughing. It came right from the very bottom of his chest, a violent fit that wracked his entire body, and he doubled over on the bed. Arthur recoiled for a moment, shocked, before beginning to fumble in all of his pockets for a handkerchief.

"Goodness, are you alright?" He found a blue silk one in the top pocket of his jacket and pressed it into Jack's clutching hand. "Here."

Jack nodded his thanks, coughing into it. When the fit subsided enough for him to withdraw it, Arthur saw that there was blood on it. Jack saw this, too, clenching it in his fist as he turned his scared gaze on Arthur.

"I-I'm still good, I'll do whatever you want!" he begged. "Please don't tell Ivan. He'll throw me out if he knows I'm sick."

Arthur frowned. "Throw you out? He should be getting you medicine."

Jack shook his head. "I can be easily replaced. Nobody wants a sick prostitute." He suddenly seemed to realise what he was saying. "B-but I can still do my job! Whatever you want, I can do it!"

"I think perhaps you should rest for a while," Arthur said. "That was quite the coughing fit. If you do anything too strenous-"

"No!" Jack grabbed at his arm, his blue eyes filled with panic. "If you don't get what you paid for then you won't come back - and if you don't come back, Ivan will think I didn't do a good job and he'll throw me out and-"

"Alright, alright." Arthur shook his arm free. "But let's at least get you some water." Jack's voice was scratchy and hoarse, as though he might start coughing again at any moment, so Arthur helped him to the sink near the window and made him drink. He slurped thirstily from the tap for a good twenty seconds, panting for breath when he came up.

"Better?"

"Mm." Jack nodded, wiping his mouth with the handkerchief - then offering it back.

"Keep it." Arthur pushed it back at him. "You need it more than I do."

Jack actually seemed quite touched. "Thank you." He squinted at Arthur over his glasses. "You're... very kind."

"It's just common decency."

Jack didn't look like he'd ever heard of such a thing. He gave an absent-minded nod and took Arthur's hand, leading him back to the bed.

"Look, really, if you need to lie down for ten minutes, I completely understand-" Arthur began.

"It's okay, _mom_ ," Jack teased, pushing him back to the sheets. "I think I can manage." He pressed down, kissed Arthur on the mouth. He still had the coppery taste of blood on his tongue.

Quite how well he could manage was up for debate, in Arthur's opinion. He tried to take him on his back and heard him beginning to gasp for breath after thirty seconds or so, rattling in his chest like the wheels of Death's chariot. Arthur rolled him on top and let him ride, holding his hips to keep him steady - so he could concentrate on thrusting, breathing. Jack spread his hands over his chest as he moved, smiling down at him with a sultriness no doubt perfected before a mirror. Looking up at him, with the dim electric light flush over his young body, Arthur could clearly see that he wasn't well. He could see his ribs and the dark shadows under his blue eyes. He wanted to touch his face, run his thumb over his cheek, but he couldn't reach. Anyway, he noticed, Jack was now looking absently at the wrought iron headboard.

Arthur wasn't really offended. He didn't expect much else.

Jack came over his stomach with quite a lovely little cry - also perfected - and rocked mindlessly for a few moments more, coaxing Arthur to follow. Arthur held his hips and bucked up against him, exhaling through his nose. He didn't groan or whine anymore, he'd managed to get himself out of the habit. As for calling names, well, often by now he couldn't even remember. It didn't matter. It usually wasn't their real name, anyway. He didn't think Jack was really a Jack.

The boy slithered off and lay alongside him, his breath rasping.

"Are you alright?" Arthur mumbled, looking lazily at him.

"Mm." Jack coughed a little bit into the handkerchief. "Yes, I'm fine." He glanced at the tin clock on the table. "We still have twenty minutes. Is there anything else you'd like to do?"

"No." Arthur sighed, reaching down to peel off the prophylactic and zip himself up. "This is nice. Let's just lie here for a little bit."

Jack scrunched his nose at him, then grinned. "You're odd," he said. "I like it."

"Hm." Arthur folded his hands across his stomach and said nothing more. Jack shimmied closer and lay his head on his chest.

"Do you want to talk?" he asked. "I'm not too smart but I know some stuff."

"Just lying here with you is nice," Arthur replied. "I like the company."

"Are you lonely?"

"Sometimes." Arthur rubbed at his gold hair. "Why don't you sleep for a bit, get your strength back." A pause. "I doubt I'm the last you'll have tonight."

Jack said nothing to this - but he did close his eyes and go quiet. Within a few minutes his breathing evened out and he seemed to have nodded off. Arthur dared to stroke his hair as he lay back and looked around the room. How many more would be in his place tonight? How many others would Jack fuck for money he clearly didn't see very much of? Did he like this job or did he have no other choice? He wanted to ask but also he didn't really want to know. Brothels had a heirarchical misery that besotted Arthur, that he found grimly fascinating; one of the many reasons he kept coming back.

Presently there came a knock on the door.

"Hour is up." It was Braginsky's voice. Arthur sat up and roused Jack as a key turned in the lock.

"Mmm, already?" Jack adjusted his glasses and began to dress, still half-asleep. He was clearly exhausted, yawning as the door swung open and Braginsky entered the room.

"Hour is up," the Russian repeated pleasantly. He looked to Arthur. "Good time?"

"Very. He was excellent." Arthur was buttoning his shirt. "In fact... might I buy another hour with him?" He wanted to let Jack sleep, he was clearly in need of it.

Braginsky gave a broad smile.

"I am glad you are so impressed." He shook his head. "However, regretfully he is now booked up for the next four hours."

" _Four_?" Arthur repeated.

Braginsky shrugged.

"He is popular." He gestured towards Jack, who was stuffing the handkerchief into the pocket of his denim jeans. "Nice to look at, good technique, da?"

"W-well, yes, but-"

"If you like him so much, you come back tomorrow night." Braginsky tilted his head. "Or, if you are not fussy, I can find you someone else. I have most beautiful boy from China, almost look like a girl. Very skilled."

"N-no, it's quite alright." Arthur drew a breath, glanced at Jack. "Perhaps I'll come back tomorrow."

"Very good." Braginsky clapped Jack on the back as he came to them. "Good boy. Now here." He pressed another key into his hand. "Room 8. Is Mr Beilschmidt, you know what he likes."

Jack gave a nod, took one last look at Arthur and left the room, clattering down the staircase.

"Won't he be tired?" Arthur asked, pulling on his jacket. "Five in a row?"

Braginsky shrugged.

"You get used to it," he said. "I used to do it back in Russia. After a while you do not even feel it." He put his arm around Arthur's shoulders and led him quite forcefully down the stairs. "Besides, if no demand, there would be no need for supply."

Arthur had no response to this, descending the staircase in silence. He could hear thuds and squeaks and moans coming from behind the doors on each landing: Room 8, he noticed, was already closed.

"Perhaps tomorrrow night, then." Braginsky shook Arthur's hand at the office door. "Thank you for your custom. Goodnight." He went back into the office and shut the door, leaving Arthur to make his way out through the front of the club.

It was even busier than before, with lots of respectable men in suits and fedoras crowded close to the stage to admire a busty blonde singer in a glittering red burlesque number. Arthur paused with a jolt, watching her across the room with a pounding heart.

For a moment, she had looked like Francine.

But it wasn't her. This girl was too young - twenty-five at most. Francine would be in her forties by now. Besides, he didn't know what she looked like anymore. He hadn't seen her for years.

* * *

The following day he could think of nothing but Jack, the boy filling up every last absent space within him. He swung wildly back and forward between a resolve to return to the club that night and talking himself out of it. After all, he hadn't exactly promised to return and he doubted Braginsky would hold him to it; and really he oughtn't, he was taking a risk and if he was caught, he could most certainly kiss his career as a university professor goodbye. Word would certainly get back to his home university back in England of just what he'd been up to whilst on his fellowship in New York; and that was if he was lucky enough not to be arrested.

Still, that boy. All he could think of was the way Jack had looked at him as he had left the room, how he had coughed up blood, how tired he was. He wondered how much rest Braginsky allowed his workers, how much food he gave them, if he ever offered them any sort of medical attention.

All in all, he was rather absent-minded for the whole day, forgetting his lecture notes on 18th century Whig rhetoric and twice calling a student 'Jack'. By the end of the day he was forced to sit in the faculty room for twenty minutes with a strong cup of tea, trying to get his head straight. No prostitute had ever had this sort of effect on him before. What was so different about this one? He wasn't necessarily the most attractive Arthur had ever had - and certainly not the most skilled - but there was something about him, an aloofness, something Arthur had seen in his eyes during the dance. He cared about being thrown out into the street for being sick, perhaps, but he didn't give a damn about much else.

Arthur could relate. He cared enough about not losing the job he had worked so hard to secure - but as for the rest of his life, he was more or less indifferent. He knew that look in Jack's eyes: it was in his own.

In the end he decided to go. He stopped by a pharmacy on his way over and bought some cough medicine, which he tucked inside his coat. It couldn't hurt.

From the outside the club didn't look remotely out of the ordinary: just a tall old run-down Victorian townhouse. He glanced about as he descended the steps to the club's door, which was a plain green with a small brass plaque in the centre. It read _Braginsky's Private Gentlemens Club_ in a neat, embossed font and looked as though it had been on the door for a very long time.

He skirted around the edge of the main club, though not without a brief scope to see if Jack was dancing. He wasn't; instead the stage was taken up by a single male dancer all in black. He had white hair and piercing scarlet eyes that went right through you. Arthur averted his gaze.

Braginsky was in his office. There was a different bottle of vodka on his desk tonight. He looked up when he saw Arthur, smiled broadly.

"Ah, you return! You want Jack, da?"

Arthur nodded, mentally filing away that this man had an extraordinary memory.

"I want him for the entire night," he said. "How much?"

Braginsky blinked. "Entire night?"

"Yes. Is that permitted?"

Braginsky gave a shrug. "I suppose. Unusual request."

"And I want to take him off the premises." This was something Arthur had decided on the way over. He met Braginsky's gaze, watching for his reaction. "Also permitted?"

Braginsky raised his eyebrows. "As long as you do not murder him and dump him in alley."

"Well, I certainly won't do that." Not that Braginsky would have much of a case if he went to the police, unfortunate as it was; Arthur knew that this was more of a personal threat. "I won't harm him in any way, you have my word."

"Good." Braginsky gave a crisp nod. "One hundred and fifty dollars, then. Have him back by six."

Money and key exchanged hands. Jack was in Room 3, second on the left on the first floor, and Arthur went to fetch him. He knew it was risky to take Jack outside - even in this part of town, he might be seen with him. But he didn't want to be in this place tonight, didn't want to play this game by Braginsky's rules. What was Jack like outside these walls? Would he still have that look in his eyes under a streetlight?

He unlocked Room 3 and stepped inside. It was dark, lit with a single blown lamp sat on the floor, and had a musky perfumed smell. There was no bed, just a mound of pillows and blankets in the centre of the motheaten carpet. Jack was curled up in the midst of them, his back to the door. He sat up with a start when he heard the door click shut.

"Arthur!" He smiled at him, fixing his glasses. "You did come back."

"I did." Arthur approached him, shrugging off his coat. "I wanted to see you again."

"Everybody always wants to see _me_ again." Jack grinned and spread out his arms. "Welcome to the Sultan Suite."

"Ah." Arthur could see it now, he supposed. It was supposed to reflect a luxurious Middle Eastern palace, although it was a rather paltry imitation, with thin, cheaply-printed rugs and balding velvet pillows. There was a chemical-smelling oil-burner on the mantlepiece. Jack himself was in pale blue harem pants and a purple beaded waistcoat, although both looked as though they had seen better days.

"Most of the money goes into the upkeep of the main club," Jack said, noticing his expression. "These are just fun rooms for clients. Some of them like a bit of roleplay."

"Roleplay of what, the Bankrupt Sheikh?"

"Haha." Jack flopped onto his back, getting comfortable. "Well, if that's not what you want then we can get right to it. These pants are so loose they slide right off me." This with a suggestive smirk.

"A-actually, I bought you for the entire night," Arthur said, clearing his throat, "so we have plenty of time."

Jack blinked, sitting up. "You did?"

"Yes. I asked to take you out. Braginsky said it was alright."

"Out like... like outside?"

"Yes." Arthur shrugged. "I thought you might like a change of scenery."

"Wow, can we go to the movies? There's this alien movie out that I always hear people talking about, there are these two guys that go into space and they fight these aliens, right, and they have these guns that go _pew pew_ and-"

"O-of course we can." Arthur didn't much like the sound of the movie but Jack's entire face lit up when he started talking about it and he didn't have the heart to say no. "And I thought we might get something to eat and-"

"Really?" Jack seized his hands. "You're not fucking with me?"

"No." Arthur frowned at him. "Why would I do that?"

Jack shrugged. "Some people have a weird sense of humour." He tilted his head. "So why are you doing this?" He gave a strange, ironic smile. "Are you in love with me or something?"

"After twenty-four hours?" Arthur rolled his eyes. "Don't be ridiculous. I like you, though. I think we're quite alike. I thought we might keep each other company."

"Okay, well, it sounds fun." Jack leaned close to him. "...Want some other fun first?"

"Well," Arthur replied, sliding a hand up over the boy's sallow chest, beneath the cold heavy beads of his waistcoat, "only if you absolutely _insist_."

* * *

...I'll maybe try to get this whole thing posted within a week. I don't think there needs to be much ceremony about it, tbh. It's a fairly miserable affair. XD


	2. II

Time for Part II of this horrible trainwreck.

Thanks to: **natcat5, Iggy Butt, charli petidei, zumiez2002, suzako, Kanoi-chan and CherryFlamingo**!

Nighthawks

II

It was 2am. Arthur sat across from the boy in a corner booth, stirring a cup of coffee around and around. He didn't much like coffee but places like this couldn't make a cup of tea to save their lives. Besides, he was starting to flag, praying the caffeine would kick in soon.

Jack was halfway through a double cheeseburger with fries and a thick chocolate milkshake. Arthur didn't know how he could eat at this time of the morning - but supposed that nocturnal creatures had their habits. He was talking animatedly about the movie, which had been full of naff special effects and more plot holes than Arthur cared to count. Jack had enjoyed it, though, watching it wide-eyed, jumping in all the right places; and Arthur hadn't had the heart to shove his hand down his underwear like he'd been planning. He'd let him watch it in peace. Half of the pleasure was knowing that, had he insisted, Jack would have obliged.

He felt ill at ease now. He glanced around the diner, taking in the other patrons: a man in a suit with coffee and a newspaper, a tramp in a shabby old coat, two prostitutes sharing a stack of pancakes.

 _I have everything._ This was what he knew. _I always have. What do I want with this?_

He looked back at Jack, watching the bob of his Adam's apple as he swallowed the last of his burger. His lips were cherubic, shiny with grease.

"Did you enjoy that?" Arthur asked dully.

"Very much." Jack beamed at him, licked his bottom lip. "Thank you, Arthur. Delicious."

Of course, Arthur was an adult. He liked to put money into things and get a return, see a result. "Good." He felt himself smile.

Jack took up his milkshake, began to swirl the straw around it. "So," he said. "I feel like this has all been about me. You must want something, right?"

"Not much," Arthur said. "Nothing fancy."

"So why all this?"

"I don't know." Arthur shrugged. "A mad compulsion. ...I wanted to see you eat."

"You know you can shove your cock down my throat anytime." Jack grinned. "There's no need to be coy."

"No, I just wanted to see you eat." Arthur shrugged again. "I don't know. I've always been like this."

Jack raised his eyebrows.

"So that's your thing? Your fetish? Watching prostitutes eat."

Now Arthur laughed. In Jack's mouth it sounded ridiculous.

(In Francine's positively scandalous.)

Jack laughed too. "You're weird," he said. "You're so weird. I like you."

Arthur smiled. "I'm glad."

Later they went to a motel. The room had a smell like damp rot and sour aftershave. Arthur wanted to take him home but didn't dare; so instead watched him undress before the shutters, the streetlight cold on his boyish curves. He didn't look the same as he had under the purple lights of the club, striding between tables and laps. He looked young and vulnerable.

There was a moth fluttering about inside the lampshade. Arthur watched its drowsy sillouhette as Jack rode him. He knew that feeling: even moons on strings were out of reach. He thought of all the moths inside motel lampshades, dried-up with dusty, twisted legs, dead because they couldn't find their way out.

Afterwards Jack lay his head on Arthur's chest. His breath was raspy. Arthur considered the cough medicine but suddenly it seemed a step too far - taboo, even.

"So what's your deal, anyway?" Jack was drawing patterns on his chest. "Hate your wife?"

"I don't have a wife."

Jack grinned at him. "You don't have to lie to me," he said. "I get 'em all."

"I really don't have a wife." Arthur shrugged. "I've never been married."

"Girlfriend, then?"

"No. Not for years. There... there _was_ a girl once, a long time ago."

"What was her name?"

"None of your business." But Arthur said it fondly, stroking the boy's hair. Jack nuzzled against him. He wasn't put off in the slightest.

"Was she pretty?"

"Very striking, yes."

"Did you love her?"

"That's none of your business, either." Arthur frowned at him. "What do you care if I did?"

Jack shrugged.

"I'm just trying to figure you out," he said. "You're a tough one. Usually I can suss people pretty easily, you know? The guys who sneak around behind their wives' backs, the army sargeants who pretend I'm one of their men, the lonely old geezers who've never had anybody... They're easy. I know what they want. But you... I can't work it out."

"Does it bother you?"

"It makes you interesting. I feel like we could do this a thousand times and I still wouldn't know you."

"I don't think there's much to know. I'm a university professor on a short fellowship at Berkeley College. I get sent here often, usually once every two or three years. I always hate it."

"You hate it? That's a strong opinion. I love New York."

"You can't have seen much of it."

Jack considered. "I guess not," he agreed. "Like the Statue of Liberty and the the Empire State and the Chrysler Building; I ain't never seen any of those. But I like it here just the same."

"We could go, if you want." Arthur said this before he could stop himself. "If you want to see them, that is."

"Would you really take me?" Jack looked up at him, his blue eyes big behind his owlish glasses.

"Of course. If you want to go then we'll go."

Jack said nothing for a while, putting his cheek against Arthur's collarbone. He tapped his fingers on his abdomen.

"Hey," he said. "Do you hate women?"

Arthur was surprised. "No," he said. "Why do you think that?"

"Because the way you've treated me is the way you'd treat a girl, right? Dinner and a movie, taking her to see Lady Liberty. You can provide those things, you're willing to, even. But you want to give them to me instead."

"What's wrong with that?"

"You're desirable. You have a great job, you're financially secure, you're good-looking and kind. You'd be a great husband."

"You don't know that."

"It's because you don't want to be, right?" Jack looked at him. "That's why you're offering those things to me instead." He frowned. "This is why I can't get you. You're nothing like anybody else who comes to me. You have everything - so I can't understand what you want from me."

"That doesn't mean I hate women. I like them well enough - I'm just not attracted to them."

"But you were. Once." Jack paused. "...Did she break your heart?"

"I can't see why it matters now."

Jack shrugged. "It doesn't, I guess." He rolled off.

"Why don't you sleep for a while." Arthur put the covers over him, tucking him in. "That's why I bought you for the night. I don't think you get enough rest."

"I _am_ popular." But Jack settled down all the same, his breath rattling on the pillow. He still had the handkerchief in his pocket, Arthur had noticed it when he'd undressed. He coughed a bit in his sleep and Arthur draped himself over him, holding it in, smothering it.

When he took him back to the club, the sky was greyish-pink and cool; it tasted of smoke, cigarette, exhaust.

"I feel like Cinderella," Jack said on the doorstep. His smile didn't light up the way it did at night. "I've turned back into a pumpkin."

Arthur frowned.

"The coach," he said. "The _coach_ turns back into a pumpkin."

Jack laughed. "Well, whatever. There goes my ballgown."

"Here." Arthur at last took out the bottle of cough medicine in its brown paper bag. "There... didn't seem to be much need for it but I thought it might help. Take it at night before..." He trailed off.

Jack bit at his bottom lip. It was suggestive. "Before I go to bed?"

Arthur cleared his throat. "Whatever works. But... do take it, won't you? It'll help clear up that cough."

Jack clutched at the bottle. Framed in the old doorway he looked like a stained-glass window; a medieval angel, patron saint of rent boys.

"Power," he said suddenly. "Is that what you want?"

Arthur blinked.

"I'm sorry?"

"This." Jack held out the cough medicine. "First the handkerchief, now this. Isn't that power? You could afford to buy this - and now you have sway over my health."

"It's just some cough medicine. It didn't cost much." Arthur felt defensive. "M-maybe I don't want to shag a prostitute with an infectious cough."

"I see." A laugh. "For future investment."

"I did say I'd take you to see all the sights."

"Yes, you did say that." Jack looked at the pavement. "I felt like I'd dreamt it but now I remember."

"Then I'll see you tomorrow." Arthur paused. "Well, tonight."

"Golly, hasn't it gone by fast?" Jack blew him a kiss. "Thanks for a fun time. I loved the movie. And the burger. And the sex."

That last part didn't sound as convincing. Arthur didn't pursue it, waving him goodbye as though seeing off a sweetheart on the train. He remembered the last time he had seen Francine - with her back to him, her hair in an elegant knot.

No, this was not power.

* * *

The night they went to see the Statue of Liberty, they did not have sex.

They went over on the barge, the black water glittering with the city lights. There weren't many others with them, just a handful of night-dwellers with their pockets full of coins.

They disembarked, stood on her plinth and looked up at her. At this distance it was plain to see that she was not the pure green of postcards - rather mottled with oxygen and age. Her torch was alight, an orange star in the deep.

"I bet she doesn't have any underwear on underneath that toga," Jack said.

Arthur blinked at him. "Sorry?"

Jack shrugged. "I dunno. I figured I should say something inappropriate."

"Indeed." Arthur nodded up at her. "Is she everything you were expecting?"

Jack studied her for a while.

"I don't know," he said. "I mean, I don't know what I was expecting. I guess... like I'd look at her and know my way home." He let out a breath. "I know that doesn't make any sense."

"No, I understand." Arthur looked at him. "When immigrants come to this country, this is what they see. What she must mean to them... Hasn't that always been the promise of America? This is the new world, where you can forge your life anew. When you look at her, you should know who you are - or who you want to be."

"But I don't know," Jack said.

"It's alright." Arthur said this not without a little bitterness. "Neither do I."

They were silent for a long while. The gentle lap of water rushed beneath them.

"My name isn't Jack," Jack said.

Arthur didn't say that he knew this. Instead he nodded.

"Then what is it?"

But Jack said nothing else. Arthur didn't pressure him; in fact, he felt in some way relieved.

He realised, with sudden alarm, that he didn't want to know. _Jack_ was an act, a persona, a body to lose himself in. They belonged to the night.

Beneath was daylight: something he'd rather forget.

* * *

For some weeks his courage failed him. He visited Jack only in the club, had his way with him on various moth-eaten mattresses. The cough didn't seem to be any better despite Jack's protests that he had been taking the medicine.

Jack, Arthur noticed, seemed withdrawn, even sulky; and he could surmise that this was only because they hadn't gone outside since the night they had visited the Statue of Liberty.

"You don't want to be seen with me," Jack complained.

"It isn't that," Arthur replied; although it was, partly, and they both knew that.

"Then take me out. Anywhere, I don't care. The park is fine. You can do me in the bushes. But I want to go out."

"I've spoilt you."

"So what? It's not like you have anyone else to spoil." Jack picked at the plaster. "Don't you think I get tired of looking at these mouldy old walls?"

Arthur twisted his fingers together.

"Look," he said, "I fear I may have given you the, ah, wrong impression. I'm not... I mean, I wasn't-"

"I don't expect you to marry me," Jack said coldly. He wrapped the greyish old bedsheet around himself. "I don't think I'd make much of a bride, anyway."

"I'm not going to argue with you." Arthur looked at his watch. "I should go. I have an early lecture."

"You usually stay later."

"Well, tonight I can't." He pulled on his clothes, neatened himself up. Jack pouted at him from the bed, all wrapped up in the sheet. There were a few specks of blood on it from a coughing fit earlier.

"Don't give me that look, boy," Arthur said wearily.

"What do you look like in the sun?" Jack asked. "I bet you crack."

Arthur rolled his eyes. He was used to him saying weird things by now. "Goodnight, Jack," he said. He started for the door.

"W-wait! Don't leave!" Jack dropped the sheet. "I-I'll tell you my name...!"

"Oh, I beg of you," Arthur replied, "don't burden me."

* * *

He didn't go back. This was a freedom like waking up after a long, pleasant dream: an emptiness, knowing that reality is safer.

That boy had become too close. He had almost been in his heart. Fascination could not become infatuation - not again. Hadn't he learnt his lesson with Francine?

He went to a different club and slept with a string of other boys whose faces he couldn't recall come morning. For two weeks he existed within himself in perfect harmony. This was his practiced model. This was how he got by.

Then Jack appeared at Berkeley - late one autumn afternoon, his hair like honey in the sun. He was in slacks and an old cardigan, a dimpled runt on the campus grounds. He was standing next to Arthur's car, waiting.

"What the hell are you doing here?" Arthur hissed at him; his heart was pounding, his skin prickling. He hadn't expected to ever see him again.

"You never came back," Jack said. "I waited and waited. I thought maybe you were busy. Then I remembered you said you were on a fellowship. I thought you'd gone back to England - so I came to see."

"You should haven't come here," Arthur groaned. He glanced around to see if anyone was looking - but the campus was all but deserted at this tie of day.

"It's a free country."

Arthur opened the car door.

"Get in," he growled. "I'm taking you home."

"It's not home anymore," Jack said. "I ran away. Ivan'll bust your ass if you take me back. He'll think you kidnapped me or something."

Arthur stared at him in disbelief. "And what am I supposed to do if he comes after me?" he asked.

"He won't. He's not mafia or anything. He just acts like he is so nobody tries anything on." Jack shrugged. "He's got a gun and a mean temper, though. I wouldn't go back there if I were you."

"Then where's your family? I'll take you back to them."

"If I had a family, I wouldn't be sucking dicks for a living."

Arthur put his face in his hands.

"Get in the bloody car," he mumbled. "We'll... we'll figure something out."

"Look, I don't want to be a sponge or anything," Jack said, strapping himself in. "If you let me stay with you, I'll get a job or something and help out." He leaned in as Arthur started the car. "And you wouldn't have to pay for me anymore."

Arthur shrugged his shoulders, easing out the tension as he pulled away from the curb.

"Yes," he said faintly. "I suppose there is that."

(There was a deeper rattle in Jack's chest. He could hear it when he breathed: the cold clench of skeleton fingers on his lungs.)

* * *

In the end, Arthur supposed that the problem of quite what to do with Jack could wait until tomorrow, at the very least. He took him home to his apartment, his breath behind his teeth as he turned the key in the lock. This was something he had considered since first laying eyes on Jack; bringing him back here, hiding him between silk and shutters. He had never dared - and now it was unfolding, unravelling, unbidden. Jack was let loose into his life and he had no control.

He made up his mind to keep a cool head. This was neither a dream nor a nightmare come true if only he didn't allow it that reign - so he treated it as ordinary. He made them soup out of a tin - tomato, dented - and toast done on a wire rack. Jack gobbled it all down but it didn't have that two-in-the-morning charm.

"How long has it been since you've eaten?" Arthur asked.

Jack shrugged. "A while. It took me a few days to find you, you know. I don't know my way around New York too well."

"What would you have done if you couldn't find me?"

"I wouldn't have stopped searching until I did."

Arthur frowned. "What if I had gone back to England?"

"I would've followed you."

"Why?"

"Because you were kind to me." Jack traced his fingertip over the forget-me-not pattern around the rim of his bowl. "Even if it was just because you wanted a better fuck, I didn't mind. You treated me like a person."

"It wasn't because of that," Arthur said quietly. "I-I don't know what it was. I saw you, that night when you stepped onto my table, and I... I just wanted to have you." He exhaled. "Not just your body - your smile, too."

"Why didn't you come back? I was worried about you."

"Because." Arthur rubbed at his forehead. "Because I was afraid."

"But it isn't just about you, Arthur."

"Yes, I know." Arthur couldn't look at him. "Forgive me."

Jack grinned.

"You're just lucky I'm so good at finding people." Then he frowned. "Well, you, anyway."

"Indeed." Arthur looked down at his tea. "I... had no idea I was that important to you."

Alfred blinked at him, pushing up his glasses.

"Well, gee, I don't have anybody else."

Arthur watched him for a moment, then looked away, studying the green tiles along the windowsill. The apartment was old, early Thirties, and hadn't been redecorated since. It reminded him of his university apartment in Paris all those years ago, post-war Depressionist with its curling fronds of floral wallpaper. He remembered the first time he brought Francine back there, how she lit up a cigarette afterwards and ran her red nails over the browning foliage, her eyes on the stack of books on the Great War at his bedside. _It would do you good,_ she'd said. _With any luck you'll have your cock shot off._ It was 1938, shortly before she was torn open, and she saw it coming a mile away. She'd talked about the war, the first one, like she'd been there, vivid, in the trenches; or, rather, like she was one of the trenches, filled up with dead men.

He'd never known quite how old she was. Older than him, of course, but it was one of many things he'd never been able to get out of her. She'd always said she didn't know why he cared so much, anyway. What did it matter in the end?

He cleared his throat. "There's a spare bedroom," he said, looking at Jack. "I'll prepare it for you."

Jack blinked. He looked almost alarmed. "Sp-spare...?"

"Of course." Arthur was brisk and factual about it. "If... if you're going to be staying here for a while then you need your own space. I don't use the other room for anything much so it's not a problem."

Jack said nothing, looking at the table.

"You can't sleep in my bed," Arthur said. "It's simply not practical."

"I'd argue that it's _more_ practical," Jack mumbled.

Arthur flushed, feeling cornered, humiliated. "I don't want you for... well, _that_ ," he said, turning away. "W-well, at least, I suppose if it happpens it happpens but... th-that's not why I brought you back here. I can't very well leave you out on the street."

"I admit I was counting on that," Jack confessed, "but I still didn't really know how you'd react. I guess I assumed... I'd have to pay you in some way."

He looked up, his blue eyes big behind his chunky glasses, and Arthur felt a sudden nauseous roil of shame rinse through him. So fragile and young.

"Q-quite unnecessary, I assure you," he said hoarsely. He began to edge away. "Why... why don't I run you a nice hot bath?"

Jack's smile deepened with a rehearsed sultriness. "Sounds good. Will you... _join me_?"

"I'm afraid I don't mean that kind of bath." Arthur didn't look at him. "If you've been sleeping rough for a few nights then I daresay you need a proper scrub."

" _Ohhh_ , you don't want me dirtying your sheets." A grin. "At least not like that."

Arthur was beginning to feel somewhat exasperated. "Do you have a disgusting comeback for everything, boy?"

Jack rolled his eyes. "Ain't much use for discussing the finer points of Shakespeare at Braginsky's place. Most clients like a filthy mouth, you know? I guess it makes 'em feel like they can put anything in it."

"I daresay."

"Don't act like you're above it." Jack seemed a little annoyed now. "You were just the same the first night."

"Yes, I suppose I was." Arthur walked away. "I'll go and run you that bath."

And that was that. Jack didn't put up any further argument and Arthur left him to soak in the tiny bathroom. Through the crack in the door, which wouldn't close all the way, he saw the boy's muscles relax as he slid into the water and tilted his head back. It really was quite the act he put on; a shield, laid on thick like make-up. Francine: her sweet-smelling powder, her ruby-red mouth. She was just the same. Everything this boy did reminded him of her.

It was too late to feel pain now. He didn't miss her. Even his regret was an echo, something calling him outside the window at night. He thought of the wendigoes cluttering Americana - 'Folklore and Legend', second year, first semester - and how they implored you by name, specific, and then devoured you when you answered. That, as he understood it, was guilt. As long as he ignored it he was safe.

When the bed was made up and Jack was out of the bath, wrapped up in Arthur's faded old robe, they had some cocoa and listened to the radio. Arthur didn't have a television, he couldn't afford either the money or the time, but Jack sat riveted in the armchair as they took in some trashy detective serial. Arthur half-listened to this sort of thing when he was marking essays or preparing lectures. Like most things, it went in one ear and out the other. This one, however, was particularly uncanny.

"It was the university professor," Jack said. "He murdered the secretary. He's got the best motive."

"We'll see," Arthur replied, smiling; but he suspected he'd be right and wasn't remotely surprised when he was. "Maybe you'll be a detective one day," he added. "You'd make a good one."

"You really think so?" Jack looked down at the residue of his cocoa. "Gee, I guess I never thought of anything like that before. I mean... of doing anything else other than..."

"A future, you mean," Arthur said softly. He knew Jack's type, he'd slept with hundreds of them. They thought they'd never get the chance to be anything else.

"W-well." Jack looked down, embarrassed. "I guess I... I just mean that I've never really known much else. Braginksy got me from the orphanage when I was twelve."

Arthur's belly gave an unpleasant jolt. "...Orphanage?"

"Yeah. I got dumped on the doorstep of the West Side Orphanage when I was a few weeks old. That's what they told me, anyway." Jack shrugged. "Whatever. Beats dumping me in the gutter to die, I guess."

"...I suppose so," Arthur said faintly. He reached over, fiddled with the radio, clicked it off. He gathered up the mugs. "You must be exhausted. Why don't you head to bed? Tomorrow..." He swallowed. It was taking every bit of strength he had to keep his voice calm. "T-tomorrow we'll figure out what to do with you. School and... and-"

"I'm too old for school. I'm nineteen."

"Of course you are." He could feel the prickling under his tongue like he was about to be sick. "Of course you are, how stupid of me. Born in 1936, right?"

He could have called him a liar. He could have said July 1939. He could have spilt his guts.

Jack looked bewildered. "That's... Arthur, are you okay?"

"Fine, fine, just a little under the weather, to be honest. Won't you get yourself to bed? Go and have a good sleep, I'm sure you need it."

"Alright." Jack sounded uneasy as he unfurled himself from the armchair. "Goodnight kiss?" He started towards Arthur, who backed away.

"No, no, I'd better not... I don't want to give you anything, not with that nasty cough of yours."

"O-oh." Jack stopped dead. He looked hurt. "Well, okay. ...Goodnight, Arthur."

"Goodnight." Arthur didn't dare look at him, at his retreating back in his borrowed robe, patron saint of rent boys, orphans, letters in shining scarlet: A for Arthur, adultery, abomination.

 _(Alfred)_

Arthur threw up twice before crawling shakily into bed and pulling the covers over his head. _How was he to have known?_ but then _Why hadn't he learnt his lesson?_ Why had Francine's retreating back taught him nothing?

After midnight, when he was half-asleep with a pounding head, the door creaked and the bed dipped. Jack's cool, crisp form slid in behind him. He felt the rattle of his ribcage at his back.

"I know you don't feel up to it," Jack whispered in his ear, "but I need to thank you for your kindness. This is the only way I know."

Arthur went rigid as Jack's hand slid over his hip and down, slipping under the elastic of his pyjama bottoms, finding its way between his thighs. His fingers were cold as they cupped him, gently squeezed.

"You won't have to pay a dime," he breathed, the cough on the brink of it. "Not a single cent. Won't that be nice?" He fondled him, experienced but not perfect, not yet. "Arthur? What do you want? We'll do anything you like, anything at all."

"Get off," Arthur said. His voice was cold and calm, an effort. It was all he could do to stop himself from screaming. "Get out of my bed."

Jack stopped, taking back his hand as though he'd been stung. He made no move to leave, however.

"Have I upset you?" he asked. "By following you? I... I'm sorry, I just didn't know what else to do..."

"You shouldn't have come here. You should have stayed where you were." Arthur said it dully, looking at the far wall. "This is no good, you see. No good at all."

"Arthur, I'm sorry." Jack began to cry. "I-I didn't mean to upset you, I-"

"Won't you go?" Arthur sighed. "Please. Just go."

"Arthur, what have I done?" Jack begged. "I don't understand why you're so angry. I'm sorry I offended you-"

"Offended? Is that what you think?"

"I-I don't know! I just wanted to pay you back, you... you've been so kind to me a-and I don't have anything else to g-give you..."

"Will you please just go back to bed?" Arthur said tiredly. "I don't want anything from you. Just go away."

Silence. Jack's breathing shuddered in the dark as he sobbed. Arthur wanted to put his hands over his ears.

"My... my name." Jack's voice was tiny and sudden, plaintative, a last resort. "I'll tell you my name-"

"I know your name," Arthur said. "It's Alfred."

A pause. Then Jack - or Alfred, as he blooms in full horrifying colour - said something mercifully stupid:

"Did Braginsky tell you that?"

Arthur rolled onto his back, lying out flat like he was in his coffin. Here are the nails:

"Alfred, I'm the one who left you on the orphanage doorstep." Breathe. "...You understand, don't you?" Clench. "You're my son."

* * *

This story is horrible. It really is. Final part soon... if anybody actually wants to read it. o.O


	3. III

Wow, I can't believe the positive response the second chapter to this got. I'm really happy that people... liked it? XD I admit I was somewhat braced for a backlash given that I know it's a touchy, potentially triggering subject. However, the incestuous element of this story is presented as horrifying, not kinky (which is totally different matter) so I'm glad people seem to be on board with the abject misery.

As usual I lied about the number of chapters; it will now be four, as there's still quite a bit to go and it seemed like too much to cram into one chapter.

Thanks to: **ChasingIridiscence, ioncewasspellbound, natcat5, nuclear taste, susumi1234, zumiez2002, Squirrelybits, Kanoi-chan, Carpenatem, suzako, America, Ella Rose1, cakeassistant, OutToGarden, rocychio, Larn, Iggy Butt, CherryBlossomKisses** and **two Guests**!

Nighthawks

III

 _["What is this, Francine? Francine!"_

 _"An exercise in misery, mon cher."]_

"She was a prostitute," Arthur said. "I suppose the apple hasn't fallen far from the tree. She was high-class, though. She wasn't cheap and she didn't sleep with anyone she didn't want to. I met her in a brothel in Paris during my post-graduate studies." A bitter smile. "I was an idiot. I fell in love with her."

"So... she's my mother?" Alfred whispered.

"Yes. ...God, how I loved her. But I... I was nothing to her, just an awkward, desperate student paying my way into her arms night after night. I asked her to marry me and she laughed in my face."

"She... sounds awful–"

"No, she wasn't. She just didn't believe in love." Arthur reached distractedly to his bedside table, finding his cigarettes and lighter. His fingers were shaking. He lit up, sucking smoke over his nerves. "But we had a lot of good times that year. I begged her to come with me when my academic year ended but she wouldn't entertain me. I didn't know she was pregnant and I don't suppose she did, either. Not then, anyway. After that I didn't expect to ever see her again."

"That doesn't explain how I got here," Alfred said. "New York, I mean."

"I came to New York for a semester as part of my PhD studies," Arthur explained dully. "She followed me here." He snorted. "The nerve of it, every time I think that I practically got down on my knees and begged her to come with me, I quite literally proposed to her and she laughed at me." He looked at Alfred, who was hunched on the corner of the bed. "But she only came here because of you. She turned up on my doorstep with you wrapped up in her arms. You were barely three weeks old. She wouldn't come in, nothing I said would make her come inside, she said if I didn't take you from her arms she was going to dash your brains out on the doorstep. I took you from her, I thought it might calm her down. I can't tell you how hysterical she was. To come all that way in that state, not long after giving birth, it's understandable. I mean, it was madness. I don't know why she did it. All she said was that she shouldn't have to pay the price, she'd paid enough already. I wanted to take her to hospital but she wouldn't let me; but I don't think she was right, you know. She definitely had some kind of fever, I could see it in her eyes. I eventually got her to come into the hall and went to get her some water but when I came back she was gone." Arthur shrugged. "That's it. I never saw her again. I've searched for her a few times in Paris but it was so long ago now. I don't know if she even made it back there. She could be dead."

"So why did you leave me on the orphanage doorstep?" Alfred didn't sound very interested in the whereabouts of his mother. "I guess you didn't want me, huh?"

"I couldn't look after you," Arthur said in a low voice. "I barely had enough money to pay my rent, never mind feed and clothe a baby. With my studies, I didn't have the time to look after you properly. And... well, this was August, 1939. I'd been following the news of what was going on in Europe. It was obvious that there was going to be a war and I knew I'd be called up when it happened. What was I supposed to do with you then?" He shook his head. "It seemed kinder to leave you at the orphanage. At least that way I knew somebody would look after you. You'd get a chance at life. I couldn't give you that, not back then."

"So you didn't want me," Alfred said. "Neither of you did."

"I don't know about Francine," Arthur replied, looking up at him. "I really couldn't say. But I... When I looked at you in my arms, I did love you. I can't explain it. I just did. Please believe me that it was not an easy decision."

Alfred's shoulders sagged. He picked at some lint on the bedsheet.

"And... you're really sure it's me?" he asked. "I mean, there are hundreds of kids in that orphanage at any one time–"

"I know it's you. Your name is Alfred, to begin with. I chose that name for you."

"It's not an uncommon name."

"I know – but still, I know it's you. Now that I look at you, I can't understand why I didn't see it before..." Arthur reached for his wallet on the bedside table, opening it up. He slipped a small square photograph from within the lining, handing it to Alfred. The boy took it, silent.

It was a photograph of Francine from the early 1930s, before Arthur had ever met her, in a low-line evening dress of beaded velvet. Her hair was done up in an elegant knot at the back of her head, her eyes were dark and promised the world. She'd given it to him when he'd left Paris: 'the least she could do for him', in her words.

"She... looks like me," Alfred whispered. His eyes found Arthur's. "Doesn't she?"

"Yes. You're just as beautiful as she was." Arthur finished his cigarette and stubbed it out. "You don't seem to have anything of mine. Perhaps that's a blessing."

Alfred handed back the photograph. "So... you're really my dad," he said.

"Yes." Arthur was starting to feel sick again, when his mind reeled through all the times he'd... and Alfred... god, the things they'd said, the...

"Wow," Alfred said. He pressed his hands together. "I... have a family. I really have a family."

Arthur looked away. "What I've done to you is unforgivable. To think... with my own flesh and blood–"

"You didn't know." Alfred crawled closer, putting out his hand. Arthur flinched but Alfred didn't recoil, pressing his palm to Arthur's knee. "Arthur, it's okay. I forgive you. Please don't be sad."

Arthur gave a shaky exhale, looking up at the ceiling. Alfred ventured closer still; Arthur could hear the vacant rattle of his ribcage. He wanted to recoil but didn't dare.

"I'm happy," Alfred went on. "I... finally I'm not alone. Don't you get it, Arthur? I knew there was something about you. I knew I had to follow you no matter what. Please, I beg you..." He squirmed in against his chest, wrapping his arms around him. He held on tight, heart hammering. Arthur didn't trust himself to move.

"Please don't ever leave me again," Alfred whispered. He began to sob; it was like the fading wail of a dying animal deep in the woods. "Please, _please_..."

Arthur managed the courage to put his arms around his fragile back. He held him close, stroked his hair. He didn't know the difference between lust and despair. Francine: would that he had never crossed paths with her and all his mistakes would be erased.

An exercise in misery indeed.

* * *

"Did you ever think about me?" Alfred asked in the morning. He was at the kitchen table with a weak cup of instant coffee, which was all that Arthur had in the way of such things. "I mean, did you ever wonder what happened to me?"

"Of course I did. All the time. I... I admit I'd always hoped that a nice family had adopted you and... well..." He trailed off. There didn't seem to be much point in going on.

"I did get taken twice," Alfred said. "Both times by nice families."

"So what happened?"

"I was problematic." Alfred didn't elaborate and so Arthur didn't ask. "So they had to bring me back."

"I see." Arthur hadn't a word to say against them; after all, at least they'd tried, which was more than he could say for himself. "Well, the past's the past. No point on dwelling on it, is there? You're... you're here now."

"I... really can stay here with you, can't I?" Alfred asked quietly. "Arthur?"

"Of course you can. And... and when my fellowship here is over, I'll take you back to England. You'll simply have to go to school, of course–"

"I'm too old for school."

"You're fifteen. For god's sake, I know when you were born. No more lies about being nineteen."

"I'm still over the leaving age."

"I don't care, you'll have to get something in that head of yours. I'm not having you sleep with men to earn a living for the rest of your life."

"But it was okay when you thought I was someone else's son, right?"

Arthur froze. He took a shaky inhale, looking at Alfred – who simply met his gaze, unruffled.

"It's true, isn't it?" Alfred said. He pushed up his glasses.

"Look, I wish more than anybody that the circumstances had been different," Arthur hissed. "I wish Francine had just married me when I asked her – then none of this would have mattered. Perhaps neither of us were ready for a baby but together we could have managed it, I'm sure we could. But... she was selfish and so was I. You're the one who suffered for it. Don't you think that's bad enough, Alfred? That that's what I think when I look at you? The fact that I've fucked you more times than I care to think about–"

"That doesn't bother me," Alfred interrupted. He shrugged. "I mean, it was a job to me. I guess I liked you a little more than most other customers but that's all you were: a customer. You being my dad is a totally separate thing to anything we did when you were paying for it."

"To you, perhaps," Arthur said faintly. "A-and I envy your approach to the matter, really I do, but I can't separate them as easily. I can't forgive myself for what I've done to you – any of it."

Alfred shrugged. "Well, it doesn't seem to me like there's much to forgive."

"You and I must think very differently."

"I guess so. Maybe I'm just fucked up in the head." Again Alfred looked at him. "Or maybe you are. Who knows?"

Arthur gave a heaving sigh. "Or we both are," he said, exhausted. "And it runs in the bloody family."

Alfred smiled. He dipped his head for a moment, drumming his hands on the mug. "You know," he said softly, "I used to think about you all the time, too. Well, I mean how I imagined you were – you and mom. I used to fall asleep dreaming that you'd show up at the orphanage to get me, that there'd been a mistake or some long elaborate reason why you'd had to leave me there. The other kids said you were both dead, that's why I was there – I mean, that's why most of _them_ were there – but I never believed it. I always felt like you guys were out there somewhere so I waited and waited." He looked up. "Dumb, huh?"

"Not entirely," Arthur said. He couldn't meet his gaze. "You were right about me. I really couldn't say about Francine."

"I imagined that you were some big tall rich entrepreneur," Alfred said, "from like Chicago or somewhere." He laughed. "And mom would be in a fur coat and pearls and there would be another kid, too, a younger brother who looked just like me called like... I dunno, Matthew or something. I always wanted a younger brother. Most of the boys at the orphanage were older and bigger than me and they used to push me around. I really wanted somebody like me to play with."

"Then I must be a disappointment," Arthur said quietly. "I'm not tall or rich or from Chicago – and I've no wife or younger son."

But Alfred smiled. "You're even better," he said. "Because you're real."

Arthur came to the kitchen table, sinking into the opposite chair. He reached across, rallying himself for a moment before pressing his hand atop Alfred's.

"Look, I know I can never make up for everything I've done to you," he said quietly. "The life you could have had, stolen away because Francine and I were so awful and selfish... But if we can't repair the bridge then we can at least begin to build a new one."

Alfred met his eyes. "...I'd like that, Arthur."

"Good." Arthur nodded. "Then we'll try our best with one another." He reached for Alfred's cup. "Are you done?"

Alfred drained it and handed it over. Arthur went to the sink to wash up the breakfast dishes, humming an old wartime tune to himself as he turned on the tap. They had plenty to do if Alfred really was going to settle properly into his life: he'd need proper clothes, of course, a whole wardrobe, and Arthur supposed he really should see what Alfred's academic ability was, if he could read and write, that sort of thing. The glasses, too, possibly weren't the right prescription, he'd noticed that Alfred tended to squint over them sometimes–

He felt Alfred's weight press up against his back and froze. The boy's arms wound around his chest, squeezing him.

"Hey, I mean, it," Alfred whispered in his ear. "About thanking you... I already said it doesn't matter to me about you being my dad. I won't tell anyone." His mouth came very close to Arthur's neck. "It's just... you know, if you want to, I'll happily oblige."

"Get off," Arthur breathed, closing his eyes. His body felt cold. He gripped at the rim of a plate in the sink to keep himself steady. "I mean it, Alfred. Take your hands off me at once."

"Alright." Alfred withdrew. "I'm just telling you that the offer is there."

"Do you honestly think I would still sleep with you knowing that you're my son?" Arthur asked, incredulous.

"Why not? If I was a girl then yeah, I get it, I might get pregnant and have some inbred mutant kid, but we're both male so what's the problem?"

" _You're my son!_ " Arthur exploded. He didn't trust himself to look at him. He started to bang the dishes angrily in the sink.

"So? It didn't do any harm before, did it? You being my dad doesn't make you any less attractive."

Arthur broke the plate. "Listen to me," he said. He turned towards Alfred, seizing him by the shoulders with soapy hands. "Listen, Alfred, because I don't think you understand and in a way I suppose I can't blame you because you don't know what it's like to have a family and that's my fault, not yours. We cannot, I repeat, _cannot_ sleep together ever again. You're my son, I'm your father. Any attraction you feel towards me is inappropriate."

Alfred tilted his head. "Why?"

"Well, it's... it just is. It's incestuous."

"Yeah, I know. I don't see what the big deal is if we're both guys, though. As I said, it's not like we can inbreed–"

"That's enough. I won't hear another word on the matter." Arthur let him go, turning back to the sink. "Do I make myself perfectly clear, Alfred?"

There was silence for a moment.

"Yes," Alfred said finally. He sounded sullen. "But I don't get it."

"I don't care. That's that."

"Fine. Can I go listen to the radio?"

"Of course."

Alfred shuffled out of the kitchen. Arthur stood still for a long moment, his fingers feeling along the ragged edge of the plate, which had broken clean in two. His heart was hammering in his chest; he didn't know whether to be more dismayed at Alfred or himself. Of course Alfred didn't understand; the difference between familial love and sexual attraction was completely alien to him – and Arthur was to blame for that, abandoning him on an orphanage doorstep and then crashing back into his life sixteen years later as a client buying sex from him. Of course it wasn't Alfred's fault–

( _I was problematic_ )

It was Arthur's.

* * *

Over the next few weeks they settled into a veneer of a life together. Arthur took Alfred shopping and bought him proper clothing, not to mention any other frivolous fancy he wanted – comics, toy aeroplanes, bags of small plastic soldiers. In some way he realised that Alfred was probably too old for this sort of amusement but reasoned that at the orphanage he'd probably had very little in the way of belongings to call his own; and had been working at Braginsky's since the age of twelve, his childhood rather abruptly cut short. So he indulged him, taking him for ice-cream and burgers, sitting through excruciatingly-bad sci-fi movies, buying him a View Master with reels of _Dick Tracy_ and _Flash Gordon_ , which seemed to entertain the boy for hours on end.

A trip to the optician's revealed that he'd been wearing the wrong prescription for at least two years; and a visit to the doctor's about the cough, which Arthur was loathe to allow to worsen, highlighted it as lingering pneumonia, nothing too severe, but it would need to be treated. Arthur, who had feared it might be tuberculosis, was relieved but realised that the cough medicine he'd bought all those weeks ago had probably had about as much effect as sugared water.

As for Alfred's behaviour, he seemed to have grasped the concept that sleeping with his own father was a no-go, although he did sometimes crawl into Arthur's bed to cuddle up with him at three in the morning. It seemed innocent enough so Arthur grudgingly let him stay; after all, Alfred had been alone for almost his entire life. It seemed natural enough that sometimes he just wanted to be close to Arthur.

Arthur had been busy making preparations to return to Britain; bringing Alfred back with him was proving to be a headache, with all manner of extra paperwork to fill in. It didn't help that he had no birth certificate for him and, indeed, had no idea where he'd actually been born; was it in France or had Francine been in the States by the time she'd given birth? He'd checked the records of a few hospitals in the area but came up blank. Of course, it was entirely possible she hadn't given birth in a hospital at all. Knowing Francine, she'd done it herself in a hotel room with two hand-towels and bottle of vodka, with a glass of wine and a cigarette afterwards. Either way, it was beginning to look like he was going to have to adopt Alfred officially, which he supposed he didn't mind but it was ludicrous given that he _was_ actually his biological father and this could all have been avoided sixteen years ago, had that orphanage step not beckoned him towards ruin...

In the meantime, he attended the university and gave his lectures and marked his essays; sometimes he brought Alfred with him but mostly he left him in the apartment with money and a key in case he wanted to go out. Alfred seemed happy enough with this arrangement; Arthur supposed he went to the cinema to see every diabolical movie ever made and let him get on with it. Let him have these last few weeks of enjoying New York in a way he'd never been able to before; and then they would go home to England, together, and start their life anew.

* * *

Arthur finished early for the day, cancelling his last lecture when only three students turned up due to the glorious sunshine outside. He'd punish them next week with a quiz, he thought gleefully, and drove back to the apartment with his shirtsleeves rolled up and the windows down. It was such a nice day that he suspected Alfred might be out, perhaps at the park or something, but when he came back they'd go out for frosted malts.

Despite their rocky start, Alfred's presence had greatly improved Arthur's mood. He liked having him to come home to, holding onto the hellos and goodbyes all day long; most importantly, he no longer felt the need to fill up those empty New York nights in the arms of thin wheezy rentboys. Sitting at home with Alfred listening to the nightly _Batman_ serial was more than good enough for him.

He parked up the car on the curb outside the apartment block and gathered up his papers from the back, shoving them under his arm. He let himself into the building and made his way up the stairs to his third-floor apartment.

He could hear voices: Alfred's, low, and another man's, deeper. Frowning, he came to the apartment door; it was open, slightly ajar, and with a small, dubious nudge he sent it swinging open. Alfred was standing in the hall, naked but for one of Arthur's work shirts, with a much older man in an expensive square suit. The man was murmuring something, rubbing at Alfred's cheek, and Alfred was shooting him that rehearsed, coy smile Arthur had seen far too many times.

Arthur dropped his books. Alfred and his guest jumped, looking to the doorway.

"Ar-Arthur!" Alfred went white. "You're back early!"

"I cancelled my last lecture," Arthur said faintly.

"Hey, now, Jack," the man crooned. "You didn't say you had such a catch for a sugar-daddy. University lecturer, hm? ...Or is that a little game you like to play?" He shook his head at Arthur. "Tut tut, Professor – keeping a gorgeous thing like Jack up here all to yourself. We all miss him at Braginsky's."

"It's Doctor," Arthur corrected him coldly. "Doctor Arthur Kirkland – and your beloved "Jack" is my son, Alfred."

The man simply rolled his eyes. "Kinky," he said.

"Get out of my apartment." Arthur stood aside, pointing at the open doorway. " _Now_."

"Sure thing," the man drawled. He patted Alfred's cheek. "Same time next week, darling." He strutted out; Arthur couldn't help but notice the gold cufflinks and Rolex watch as he slammed the door behind him.

"Arthur, I can explain," Alfred said weakly.

"How _dare_ you," Arthur hissed. "In my fucking apartment...! Just because I refused, you bring men in here–"

"No, it's not like that!" Alfred grabbed Arthur's wrist, pulling on him. "Please, just come and–"

"Let go of me." Arthur wrenched his arm back. His face was hot but he shivered violently all over. "How dare you do this. If you want to go back to Braginsky's so badly–"

"No!" Alfred put out his arms as thought he was shielding himself. "Just... please just _listen_ , Arthur...! I-I was worried, everything you've done for me, it's cost you so much money and I know you don't have much! You said yourself the reason you gave me up in the first place was because you couldn't afford to look after me. So I... I wanted to help and this was all I could think of...!"

He darted away suddenly, vanishing into his room; at length, heavy-hearted, Arthur followed him, standing on the threshold. In the few weeks since Alfred had been here, it had been transformed into a childish wonderland, with model planes hanging from threads on the ceiling and comics stacked on every surface and a picture of Superman clipped from a magazine above the bed. It was quite at odds with the rumpled bedsheets and the sour aftersmell of sex. He wondered how he hadn't noticed before now.

Alfred pulled a shoebox from beneath the bed and pulled off the lid, emptying it out. A shower of green spilled all over the carpet, several hundred dollars' worth of bills chasing in every direction.

"I've managed to make three hundred and fourteen dollars," Alfred said desperately, looking up at him. "It's just a few old clients but... but I knew you'd be angry so I didn't tell you. I was going to give it to you when we got to England."

"It wouldn't be any good there," Arthur said woodenly. It was all he could bring himself to say.

"Wouldn't it?" Alfred picked up some of the bills, looking at them in confusion. "Why not?"

"We don't use American dollars in Britain. We use sterling."

"What's sterling?"

"It's what wankers like me pay fucking rentboys with!" Arthur put his face in his hands. He felt like sobbing but the tears wouldn't come. His eyes burned in their sockets.

"Arthur..." Alfred got up. "I'm sorry, I... I was just trying to help..."

"I know." Arthur took a deep breath, raising his face again. He looked at Alfred, who stood forlornly in the middle of the room with dirty money scattered around his bare feet. Oh, patron saint: no matter how much Arthur prayed, it went unheeded.

"Never mind," he forced out. "Just... just don't do it again."

Alfred looked away. His shoulders sagged.

"I'm sorry," he said again. "I know I... it's just that it's all I'm good for–"

"Enough." Arthur turned away; he couldn't bear to listen to any more. "Get dressed. It's a lovely day. We'll go and get frosted malts."

"What about the money?"

"We'll sort it out when we get back." He started away, then paused. "Alfred, I... appreciate the sentiment. I want you to know that. I just wish that you hadn't acted on it."

"I was scared," Alfred said quietly. "I was scared that... I don't know, you'd run out of money and wouldn't be able to take me with you to England. I didn't want that to happen. I want to stay with you no matter what."

"Alfred, I..." Arthur felt his voice stick. He fought to clear his throat. "I-I wouldn't leave you behind. Not again, not..."

Alfred wiped at his eyes. "I just wanted to be sure."

 _That you had no excuse._ Arthur let out a breath. It was shaky.

"Come here," he whispered. He put out his arms, gathering Alfred close. "I'm sorry, Alfred. You deserve so much more than me."

"I don't care," Alfred sobbed, clutching at him. "As long as I can stay with you then I don't care what happens. I love you so much, Arthur."

Perhaps Alfred still didn't understand – but then, who was Arthur to talk? He was just as new at being a father. He and Alfred were as naïve and stupid as each other.

He kicked the door shut on the money so that he wouldn't have to look.

* * *

Final part soon! Thank you for your support with this trainwreck.


	4. IV

All aboard the Misery Train! Next stop: off a bridge and into the sweet dark embrace of the waiting abyss.

Thanks to: **natcat5, America, OutToGarden, rocychio, CherryBlossomKisses, Kanoi-chan, thelonelylatte, Squirrelybits, zumiez2002, suzako, IggyButt, Princoxx** and **a Guest**!

Thank you all for your (frankly surprising) support with this story. I really didn't think anybody would like it. I'm not sure that _I_ like it, honestly – but I'm still glad that I wrote it. It's been an interesting experience. There will be no ANs at the end and I would like to take this opportunity to alleviate any concerns regarding the ending: yes, it is abrupt (no, don't scroll down to the bottom to have a look!). After a long while of deliberating, I decided that I liked the final line and left it as it was. I don't think it needs any more. But just in case you think the chapter was cut off when I uploaded it, etc, rest assured that it wasn't. It's exactly as it should be.

That's how it ends, to quote T.S. Eliot: 'not with a bang but a whimper'.

Nighthawks

IV

Arthur burned the money that night.

There was going to be a storm – he could feel it, the way the air was so thick and humid, lying low in the chest. It had been hot for days and the rain was overdue. It was too hot, really, to light a fire – but after Alfred had gone to bed, he retrieved the money in its shoebox and threw it onto the flames. The bills went up with a roar of orange smoke and the smell was completely alien.

 _Well,_ he thought, watching them shrivel, _how many people know the smell of three hundred dollars burning up into nothing?_

He couldn't justify it. It was one of the stupidest things he'd ever done – but he felt no regret, no sudden overwhelming desire to stick his hand in and rescue those still salvageable, only a little crisp around the edges. No, no, this was for the best. This was all he could think of to do.

He got into bed as the rain started, lying still and listening to it lash against the glass. When the lightning came it set the whole room ablaze, split-seconds, and he saw the crystal shape of every raindrop magnified on the wallpaper. The thunder came rolling in like a wave, pushing up over the shores of his bedsheets. All he could think of was cold feet and wet mouths on the backs of his thighs. Perhaps burning the money had made him delirious; a chemical reaction of some sort, like magnesium in water. He didn't suppose it was something that had had much research.

He was almost asleep when Alfred clambered in next to him, slithering up close.

"What's wrong, Alfred?" he murmured sleepily.

"Don't like the thunder." Alfred nuzzled against his back. "I'm scared."

Arthur didn't reply. After a beat he felt Alfred nudge him.

"Arthur. I'm scared."

"I heard you."

"Then why didn't you answer?"

Arthur let out a breath. "I don't know," he said at length. "Sometimes... I have to summon all my courage just to look at you."

"Oh." He felt Alfred shrink. "I..."

"It's not your fault. It's mine."

"...You're angry, aren't you? About... what I was doing with those men. I really _was_ only doing it for the money—"

"It's alright, Alfred." Arthur couldn't bear to hear him defend the money, especially not now.

"Well, I just don't want you to hate me."

Arthur paused. The lightning came and the thunder shook the walls in the interim.

"I don't hate you," he said softly. "How could I hate you, Alfred? You're my child, my–"

"Am I, though?" Alfred interrupted. He sounded tired. "I don't feel like I am, Arthur. I mean, it's nothing to do with the way you've treated me – you've been so kind and generous to me. Even if it is only because you feel like you have to, it's nice. But I... I don't feel like I'm your son."

"You _are_ –" Arthur began, a little desperately.

"I'm not talking about biologically. I just mean how I feel. I don't feel like you're my dad."

"Again, that's my fault," Arthur said quietly. "Of course you don't know what it's like to have a father – or a mother, for that matter."

"The more I think about it, the more I realise that I don't care," Alfred said. "It's too late. Years ago, back at the orphanage, I'd have given anything for this – what we have right now. But now I feel like it's too late for it. I'm too badly-damaged."

Arthur rolled over to face him. He could barely make him out. "Alfred," he said softly, "you're not _damaged_ –"

"I am. This isn't going to save me anymore."

Arthur exhaled. "So... what are you saying? You want to go back to Braginsky's?"

"No!" Alfred sounded alarmed. He groped for Arthur's hand under the sheets and clung tight. "No, I don't want to go back there. I want to stay with you, Arthur."

Arthur was beginning to feel uneasy. "But I don't understand, how can–"

"Oh, god, I don't _want_ you to be my _dad_ ," Alfred groaned. "When you first said it, I was so happy that I'd found you – but the more I think about it, the more I realise that that's not what I want from you. No matter how hard I try, I can't make myself feel like you're my father, not really."

Arthur closed his eyes. He was beginning to feel nauseous. "And how do you feel, Alfred?" He barely dared to ask it.

"I want to have a proper relationship with you," Alfred said. "I want you to kiss me and fuck me and whisper things in my ear. I want you to shove your hand down my pants and push your fingers up inside me–"

"Alfred, stop it at once!" Arthur sat up, reaching for the bedside lamp and lighting up the room. He could feel how hot his face was. "How dare you say things like that!"

"Why?" Alfred demanded. "Because you're my dad – or you say you are? I don't fucking know, do I? You can't prove it! This is how you get your rocks off, for all I know!"

"Oh, for god's sake–"

"Well, I _don't_ know!" Alfred snapped. "I don't know you very well, Arthur, and suddenly I'm meant to act like I'm your son? I've never had a family, I don't know how I'm meant to feel!"

"Not like _that_!" Arthur spat.

"But I can't _help_ it!" Alfred wailed. "I love you, Arthur. Maybe it's the wrong kind of love but I can't help how I feel about you. I don't want you to be my dad! Why can't we just forget it? What difference does it make in the end? You didn't raise me, you didn't–"

"Forget it?" Arthur almost choked. "Alfred, we have committed the most heinous act–"

"But I don't care! I forgive you, Arthur, and nobody else even has to know. You shouldn't be fucking under-age boys in the first place – what difference does it make if we're related or not?"

Arthur said nothing. He pushed back against the headboard, his chest hot and prickling. He felt like he might kill Alfred if he came any closer.

"I wish we'd never found out," Alfred said savagely. "I wish you hadn't named me, then the orphanage would have called me something else and you'd never have known it was me!"

"You look like Francine," Arthur said dully. "I think that must be what I liked about you in the first place."

"But that's all it was!" Alfred insisted. "You thought I looked like some French whore you knocked up – you didn't think I was the result!"

"Don't speak about her like that."

"Why shouldn't I? This is her fault, isn't it? She did this to us! If she'd just married you when you asked her, you would have raised me as your son and I wouldn't lie awake at night jerking myself off over you!"

"...I beg your pardon?" Arthur looked at him; although he didn't know why he was surprised, really.

Alfred simply looked defiant. "Every night. I can't help it. I've had it and now I'm deprived. I don't need to imagine, I know all the things you'll do to me, how they'll make me feel. I love your hands, your voice, your taste. I've slept with hundreds of men but you're the only one who makes me hot."

" _Stop_." Arthur put his hands over his ears. "Alfred, I can't bear it. Stop, _please_."

Alfred fell silent. He looked down at his hands.

"You can try and twist it any way you like," Arthur said, fighting to keep his voice calm. "The fact is that some of things you've said make perfect sense."

Alfred looked up, his face hopeful. The thunder boomed again at his back.

"However," Arthur went on, "I cannot trade my integrity for your teenaged lust. In time you'll get over it – but time will never erase or forgive my sins against you."

Alfred lay down. He seemed small and wretched in his defeat. "I wish I hadn't been born," he said. "Not like this. I wish I'd been born when you were, that we'd met somewhere else – in the army, maybe, during the war. Then you could have been free to love me the way I love you."

"I doubt it. There's still the matter of us both being men."

"I don't care about that." Alfred rolled over. "I just want to be happy."

"Alfred, you don't love me," Arthur said. "Not really. You just think you do. You're only fifteen."

Alfred gave a deep sigh, his body seeming to cave inwards. "Maybe so," he said softly. "...Arthur, I don't want you to think I'm ungrateful. I appreciate everything you've done for me. I just wish things were different."

"I know," Arthur said. "So do I. I wish I hadn't abandoned you. You needed me and I was weak."

"I forgive you, Arthur. I forgive you for everything."

 _O patron saint._ Arthur pressed his hands together, brought them to his mouth. He listened to Alfred breathing over the rain; thought of cowboy boots and beaded waistcoats and cracks in the ceiling. Misery, he realised, is an inheritance.

* * *

When he woke again it was still raining; and he could still hear Alfred breathing, heavier, rattling. He could feel him, too, pressed up against him, rutting, grinding. The heat pooling his belly was already betraying him and he didn't dare move, lying rigid and still as Alfred gave a shuddering gasp and came against his thigh.

Alfred slid off him, panting into the pillow. Arthur didn't know what to do, lying on his back in the dark, frozen with horror and dismay. His own arousal have shrivelled away at the congealing wetness of Alfred's climax.

"I know you're awake," Alfred said softly. "I didn't think you'd stay asleep the whole time. What will you do now?"

Arthur pressed his hands over his face. " _Why_?" he whispered.

"Because I'm bad," Alfred said. He sounded heartbroken. "I'm beyond repair. There's nothing to be done with me."

"Get out," Arthur said. "I don't care where you go, just get out."

"Fine." Alfred slithered out of the bed and shuffled out of the bedroom. Arthur lay perfectly still for another few moments, the heels of his hands pressed into his eye sockets, listening to him fumbling around in the lounge. Actually, he understood perfectly: by Alfred's logic, if he continued to do things like this, fetishizing Arthur, forcing his hand, then eventually Arthur would no longer be able to see him as a son. He wanted Arthur to see him as a sexual object; perhaps he thought it would make it easier on him, that he'd be able to forgive himself then.

Arthur got up, stripped off his sopping pyjamas and pulled on his robe. He opened the bedroom door and stepped out into the lounge. Alfred was crouched in front of the dead fire, poking at the ashes. One half of a twenty dollar bill had escaped total incineration, caught under the grille.

Alfred looked towards him.

"The money," he said. "You burnt it."

"Yes," Arthur replied. He offered no justification.

Alfred straightened up. "I see," he said. "Maybe I should have known. I guess I did, deep down. That's why I hid it."

"I couldn't accept it," Arthur said. "Not knowing how you got it."

"Yes." Alfred kicked at the grate. "I suppose you'd know all about that, wouldn't you? You certainly seem to have a fascination with prostitutes – you wanted to marry one, you fathered another. Were you trying to save her, too?"

Arthur blinked at him. "...I beg your pardon?"

Alfred shrugged. "That's what it is, isn't it?" he said. "It's not really about us. Me – or Francine or whatever the hell her name was. It's about you, Arthur. Are you so full of self-loathing that we are your only consolation? We're in no position to judge you, after all, not if _that's_ how we earn our living. You can be as terrible as you want, you'll never be as disgusting as us – and then you can buy your way out by saving us. What was Francine thinking, turning you down – _you_ , Arthur, young and good-looking and and well-mannered and educated. I'm sure you had your pick of young, good-looking, well-mannered, educated young ladies back home. But that's not what you wanted, is it? You wanted Francine, you wanted boys like me – because we'd be grateful, we'd thank you, we'd make you feel good about yourself." Alfred smiled suddenly. "Hey, look at that. I worked you out after all, Arthur. Gee, you were a tough one. You hide the fact that you've got no self-esteem pretty well."

Arthur said nothing. He crossed to the front door and took the keys off the hook; then came to Alfred and took him by the arm, pulling him across the apartment and into the hallway, where his bedroom door was ajar.

"Go in," he said stiffly. "Go to bed. I don't want to hear another peep out of you tonight."

"I've crossed the line," Alfred said reflectively. "Haven't I?"

"Desecrated it." Arthur pushed him into his room. "We'll discuss it in the morning."

"I've spoiled everything." Alfred stood obediently on the other side of the threshold. "Haven't I? Arthur?"

"I don't know. I can't think straight." Arthur closed the door and put the key in the lock, twisting it to the right. "You're not coming out of that room until morning. Goodnight, Alfred."

Alfred didn't reply. Arthur put the keys back next to the door and went back to bed. His legs felt like they were about to collapse from under him as he crawled back under the covers, still wrapped up in his robe. Alfred had frightened him: not his actions, which were ridiculous rather than alarming, but his words. It hadn't really struck him before that Alfred was highly intelligent – but he saw it now, that alarming, terrifying brilliance, the way he'd torn him wide open. It was like he'd dissected him alive and laid out his organs in careful rows on the carpet and then labelled them neatly for good measure. He felt completely and utterly violated.

Better to keep him locked up behind closed doors where he belonged: out of sight, out of mind, so Arthur could sleep in peace.

* * *

It was still raining come morning. It had been so hot these past few weeks that Arthur wasn't entirely surprised, parched earth peeling away from the pavement with thirst.

He washed and dressed very carefully, calmly – buttoning and buckling himself in, tight, together, so that he couldn't come apart at the seams. He didn't know what to say to Alfred when he opened the door. Perhaps he should practice in front of the mirror: good-morning, how-the-devil-are-you, how-fucking-dare-you. Today that locked door was like Pandora's Box; who knew just what in hell would burst out when he opened it to the world?

When at last he summoned the courage to put the key in the lock and turn it, he let the door swing open by itself and said nothing. He stood on the threshold, shielded by silence, and waited for Alfred to come slinking out, perhaps on all fours with an elongated spine, midway through transformation into... what? A wendigo, maybe, or some other devil, a devourer of hearts and minds and sanity–

There was no movement in the room beyond. Losing his patience, Arthur stepped briskly into the room, ready to rip the covers off his huddled form.

"Alfred," he began, "get the hell up, you..."

He trailed off, his stomach plummeting to his shoes. The room was empty and and window was open.

" _Shit_...!" Arthur crossed the room, frantic, heart hammering beneath his ribcage. He wrenched open the wardrobe, lifted the bed, threw back the door, but all the potential hiding places were vacant. The dread of realisation rinsed over him as he went to the window and put his hands on the wet sill. The fire escape wasn't much of a drop. Alfred was gone.

He raked his hands back through his hair, calming his breathing by force. This wasn't a bad thing, he thought, chanting it over and over. Alfred was a problem and now he was gone. This wasn't a bad thing. This wasn't a bad thing.

Logic, however, couldn't reckon with the blind frantic skittering of his heart. Yes, Alfred was a problem. Yes, Arthur hadn't know just what the hell he was going to do with him. Yes, Arthur admitted that he was slightly terrified of him. But none of that seemed to matter now that he was faced with the cold black reality of Alfred's disappearance. For all his feelings, all his failings, he hadn't meant to drive him away.

He checked the room for a note but found nothing; and so pulled on his coat and scrambled downstairs to the street. It was possible that Alfred hadn't left that long ago, or at the very least hadn't gone far, not in this weather. He might be huddled in a doorway the next block over.

The streets were misty and deserted this early in the morning, his calls of Alfred's name bouncing off the wet bricks as he combed the area. The only sign of life he found was one straggly cat, which leapt out from behind a bin and darted across the street under a parked car. He stopped in the middle of the road and let out a breath, pushing his wet hair off his face. He was soaked through, empty-handed, hoarse. Alfred wasn't here or wasn't answering. He didn't know what else to do. Call the police? But Alfred hadn't been kidnapped – he'd run away. And the police, well, they'd want to know if there was a reason he would have run off, if there'd been an argument of some sort, and then Arthur would have to explain and of course he couldn't do that, not to them, oh _god_...

He trudged back up to the apartment and dropped his soaked coat in the hall; leaving a trail of water all the way through the place as he checked every room, every closet, every last corner, even though he knew that he'd locked Alfred in and so he couldn't be anywhere else.

He looked at the clock. If he skipped breakfast, which he didn't much feel like eating anyway, he'd make it in time for his first lecture. He supposed there wasn't much else he could do; fretting at home wasn't going to help. It was likely that Alfred would come back on his own – he couldn't stay out forever, not with the rain pounding like that.

He changed, rubbed his hair dry and grabbed his briefcase, pausing to write Alfred a note, which he put in an envelope and taped to the front door:

 _Alfred,_

 _I'm sorry about last night. When I get back, we'll talk everything through properly, I promise. I want this to work for both of us._

 _All my love,_

 _Arthur_

 _P.S: The key is in the usual place_

He left, hoping against hope that Alfred would cool down and see sense, realise that Arthur hadn't wanted him to leave. When he came back this evening, he prayed that he'd find Alfred curled up on the sofa, trawling through magazines for pictures to cut out, _Dick Tracy_ blaring too-loud in the corner.

As for the note, well, it was superfluous. He didn't know if Alfred could even read.

* * *

He gave the worst lectures of his academic career, mixing up Henry V and Henry VIII and attributing the cause of the Black Death to a shipment of bad cider from Germany. Well, all the more punishment for skipping out on his lecture yesterday, he felt; the essays would be interesting, if nothing else.

The only thing on his mind was Alfred and as soon as he was done for the day he threw everything into the car and shot home. It was still raining but he didn't bother wrestling with his umbrella as he threw the car up against the curb and scrambled out, sprinting to the apartment block. He fumbled with the keys and elbowed his way into the building, taking the stairs two and three at a time, his heart in his mouth.

The note was still stuck to the door in its envelope but he didn't let that trifle him too much. As before, he wasn't even sure if Alfred knew how to read. The key was still under the begonia but, again, that meant nothing. Alfred always put it back after he'd let himself in.

"Alfred?" Arthur called to him as he opened the door and stepped in. "Alfred, are you here?!"

Nothing. His heart congealed, growing cold and black in his chest. He made his way through the apartment once more, checking every room, but there was no sign of life. Nothing had been disturbed in his absence.

Right. Fine. He wasn't beaten yet. There were still places he could look.

He got back in the car and started up the engine, peeling away from the shining curb. He headed east, away from the lush pleasant greenery of the suburbs and towards the greying heart of the Bronx, backwards, backwards, to where it had all begun.

The barge out to the Statue of Liberty wasn't running. The ferryman was huddled under his canopy in a raincoat with worn-away elbows. He wasn't going over today, he said, not in this weather, wasn't worth the fuel or the effort. He hadn't seen Alfred, although Arthur described him as vividly as possible, his image burning brightly in his brain.

Next he went to the cinema, the first one, and bought a ticket for the newest monster movie. It was cheap cinema, run-down, the sort that didn't check the theatres after a showing, that ran the movie on repeat all day. He knew Alfred sometimes sat and watched the same movie two or three times in a row, just be sure he hadn't missed anything. It was mid-evening, after the rush of schoolboys and before the rush of gropers and prostitutes, so the place was nearabouts empty. He didn't find Alfred in any of the six screens, although he stood and scoured every last row just to be sure. He crumpled his ticket in his fist as he left.

He went to the diner and sat at the back with a cup of coffee that tasted like burnt tarmac. He pressed his chilled hands around the lukewarm ceramic and watched the door, eyes darting hopefully at every jingle of the bell above it. Alfred did not appear, however, like a saint in a stained-glass window, wrapped in wet and trailing bedsheets. Arthur realised that he didn't even know what Alfred was wearing.

There was only one other place he could think of to look now – a last resort, a final act of desperation. This time he didn't care who saw him. He left the car right outside Braginsky's, pulling his jacket tighter around himself as he entered the club and pushed his way through the crowd. There was a tight cluster about the stage, blue-collar workers in their suits and hats whooping, cheering, throwing fistfuls of dollar bills. The atmosphere, not so long ago such second-nature that he'd found it boring, now filled him with a claustrophobic dread. He was a culprit, an instigator, in all this – in driving the young and helpless into those waiting, greedy hands.

It was a girl on the stage, winding herself around the pole, with long pale hair and cold silver eyes. She didn't have a top on and the shape of their hands mirrored her curves in mid-air. They knew exactly how much money could buy the sweet soft press of her flesh.

He turned his back on the animal spectacle of it and made his way out to Braginsky's office. He was half-braced for a bullet in the forehead but found himself eerily calm. Perhaps he felt himself free of consequence: he'd already lost everything.

Braginsky was behind his desk, poring over his leather folder. He looked up as Arthur entered, tilting his head before breaking into a wide smile.

"Ah, Doctor Kirkland!" he said pleasantly. "It has been a while! I thought perhaps we had offended you."

"Is Al... _Jack_ here?" Arthur asked, coming before the desk. "Did he come back?"

Braginsky blinked. "Come back? Nyet, he is not here. I terminated his contract over three weeks ago."

Arthur blinked, derailed. "...Terminated?"

"Da. He was sick." Braginsky shook his head. "No good for business. I had complaints from customers that he was coughing up blood. That does not look very good, does it?" His violet eyes narrowed. "You had him many times. Did you not experience this problem?"

Arthur exhaled. "I... can't say that I ever noticed."

"Hm." Braginsky didn't sound very convinced. "Well, he was no longer of any use to business. I have replaced him with similar boy from Canada." He leaned forward across the desk. "Interested? Looks very like Jack. He even wears cowboy outfit."

"No, thank you," Arthur replied stiffly.

Braginsky shrugged, settling back into his seat. "Fair enough. Just an offer."

"Look, do you have any idea where Jack is?" Arthur pressed.

"None. He said he was going to find you after I dismissed him. I have not seen him since."

"...I see." Arthur clenched his fists; but then took a deep breath, releasing them again. He had no right to be angry at Braginsky for throwing Alfred out, not when he'd been the one to abandon him on that orphanage doorstep in the first place. Braginsky was looking at it from a business perspective, after all; Arthur had simply been selfish and weak.

"I take it he did not find you?" Braginsky asked.

"No, he did," Arthur replied, looking at the floor. "He's been with me these few weeks but... we had something of a disagreement and he ran away. I thought he might have come back here but..."

Braginsky shrugged. "He was always problematic," he said calmly. "Sometimes I think that he is mentally unwell. Perhaps that would not be surprising."

Arthur flinched. "Yes, I... suppose that would make sense," he said quietly. "He's had such a rotten start in life..."

"Are you quite sure I cannot tempt you with another?" Braginsky said, losing interest in the topic of Alfred. "Boy from Canada has better technique than Jack; or what about Yao? He's the Chinese boy I mentioned before, beautiful to look at, highly skilled–"

"No," Arthur interrupted. "No, thank you. I really couldn't. I only came to look for Jack."

"He is not here."

"I know." Arthur nodded to him. "I'll just be going." He turned on his heel. "Goodnight."

"Men like you are always the most interesting," Braginsky said. "You have everything – and everything to lose. I can only think that you must crave destruction in every sense."

"Yes," Arthur agreed gently. "Men like me – and women, too, utter monsters, selfish and greedy and terrible. We burn brightly like dying stars." He looked at Ivan, who seemed amused. "When we go out, we take everyone with us."

* * *

He brought the car up to the curb, his heart like a shrivelled raisin rattling off his ribcage. It was dark, still raining, and he didn't know what else to do. Start his search afresh tomorrow, perhaps, but what result would that yield him? Alfred clearly didn't want to be found.

Who knew where on earth he was? Perhaps he'd taken the train out of New York; he could be in another state by now. Perhaps he had other lovers he could go to – the man with the Rolex and the gold cufflinks who looked at Alfred like he was the sun. Men like him, they were the sort who would give Alfred what he wanted. They didn't ask him to be anything else but a whore: soft open legs and an obedient mouth with a filthy comeback for everything.

He made his way back up the stairs to his apartment, his head pounding. He'd barely eaten all day but found that he didn't have it in him to be hungry. Perhaps he'd just make himself a cup of tea, he thought, and head to bed, sleep on it, maybe Alfred would come back in the morning–

Alfred was slumped up against the front door in a bedraggled heap. He was soaked through, shivering madly, his eyes squeezed shut. He wasn't wearing his glasses. Arthur almost tripped on the last step as he scrambled towards him.

"Alfred!" He dropped to his knees next to him. "Alfred, thank god...!"

Alfred opened his eyes a little. His face was very white. "Ar...thur..." His voice caught and he began coughing.

"Come on, idiot boy." Arthur took him under the arms and lifted him up; the boy was like a dead weight in his arms. "Let's get you inside."

He unlocked the door and all but dragged Alfred over the threshold. The boy was quivering, completely drenched, his breathing heavy and rasping.

"You've had me out of my mind with worry," Arthur said, hauling him to the bedroom. He'd put Alfred in his own bed, he thought, where there was more room for extra blankets and he could keep an eye on him. The lingering pneumonia had him on edge; he knew he had to get Alfred's body heat back up as quickly as possible.

"I'm... I'm sorry..." Alfred began coughing again.

"Don't speak." Arthur sat him in the chair at the dresser and began to hurriedly strip him, dropping his wet clothes to the floor. He got a towel from the cupboard and rubbed him dry, hard and rough, trying to get his blood stimulated. Alfred coughed into his hand as Arthur scrubbed violently at his hair.

"Where are your glasses?" Arthur asked.

"Dropped them," Alfred rasped. "That's why... it took me so long... to get back... I couldn't find m-my way..."

"Stupid boy." Arthur dug thick, quilted winter pyjamas out of the bottom drawer and pulled them onto Alfred's shivering body. "...Why did you do it? I've been frantic. I looked everywhere for you."

"I-I thought... it would be best..." Again he began to cough. Arthur steered him towards the bed and put him in, then fetched three extra blankets to bundle him up properly.

"There. Just snuggle up and get warm, alright? I'll... I'll make you some soup."

Alfred gave no reply, pale and sickly against the pillows. Arthur didn't want to leave him for even a minute but tore himself away to the kitchen to fumble about with the stove and pans. He made tomato soup, a reminder of the first night, and weak tea, more hot water than milk. These he brought in to Alfred on a tray, propping him up as much as he could. He sat next to the bed and fed him; Alfred didn't seem like he really wanted it but opened his mouth out of sheer obedience, something that Arthur didn't like to think about. The colour had begun to come back into his face, though, which was something.

"You can't really think that I wanted you to go," Arthur said softly. "Alfred?"

"I know y-you didn't," Alfred rasped. "But it... s-seemed best. You didn't know... what else to do with me and I... I'd ruined ev-everything..."

"Sshh." Arthur rubbed at his cheek. "It's alright. It doesn't matter. We'll work everything out, Alfred, I promise."

Alfred grasped weakly at his hand. "I didn't... w-want you to hate me, Arthur..."

"I don't hate you," Arthur said softly. "I could never hate you."

"B-but I..."

"Our relationship can never be what you want," Arthur went on, smiling at him, "but please know that I love you. I do, Alfred, with all of my heart. I want you to stay with me, for us to have a life together... You know that, don't you?"

Alfred bit at his lip. His blue eyes filled with tears, welling over. He looked down at the bed, beginning to sob.

"Oh, god..." Arthur pushed aside the tray and wrapped his arms around him, holding him as tight as he dared. "Alfred, I'm so sorry. Please don't cry."

Alfred clutched at him, trembling in his arms. His every breath seemed to cleave through his body. Arthur rubbed at his hair, still a little damp from the downpour. He smelt of the rain, the grit in the gutters. It shouldn't be like this. He let him sob until he was too worn out to carry on, winding down in his arms, sniffling against his neck. His hands loosened.

"Look, get some rest," Arthur said, pulling back. He gently pushed Alfred back to the pillows, tucking him in. "You need a good sleep. We'll talk about everything in the morning."

Alfred gave a tired nod, letting his eyes slide closed. "I didn't... want to go," he said quietly. "I just... thought..."

"I know." Arthur stroked at his face, brushing away his sticky hair. "It was me, Alfred. I'm to blame for it all. I'm a monster and you're the one... who's had to pay for my sins."

 _O patron saint_

"No." Alfred's eyes slitted open again. "N-not a... monster." He smiled. "...Not to me."

"But I am," Arthur said sadly. "The kind that comes out at night and preys on those less fortunate, their bones and their flesh and their souls."

( _That's right,_ he thought. _You can only see stars at night_.)

* * *

In the morning Alfred was dead. Arthur woke up next to him with the grey light coiling through the curtains like smoke and he knew without touching him, without speaking, without looking. He'd slept back-to-back with him, sweltering under four blankets, to try and share his body-heat; overly-cautious, he'd thought, really. He hadn't expected Alfred to die.

He sat up and looked down at him, perfectly still on his back, his young face white and drawn, with greyish-blue circles beneath his eyes. He hadn't heard him coughing or gasping for breath, hadn't felt him writhing or thrashing or dying. It must have been peaceful, a quiet and sudden slipping away in his sleep.

He touched his cheek. He was stone-cold. Hours ago, then – and Arthur had slept through it all, his back to him, oblivious.


End file.
